by Carla Damron
“Hmmm.” Becca scanned the room, trying to get her bearings.
“Dr. Burnside gave you some medicine. You may feel a little muddled.”
Becca rubbed her fist against her eye like a pre-schooler. So much of Becca was still so very young. She was still growing. Changing. There was still time to help her. Lena would make sure she ate like she should. Would spend afternoons with her, take her shopping. Help her with homework. Be the mother she needed.
“Are you hungry?” Lena asked.
“A little.”
“I can go get you something if you want.”
Becca slid her feet off the bed and pulled herself up. “I can get it myself.”
Lena eyed the door, wondering if Becca could manage the stairs in her drugged condition. “There are still a lot of people here,” Lena said.
“People?” Becca’s hands clenched the bedspread, as if she needed it for balance.
“They came by after the funeral.” Lena could still hear the clink of glasses, muted voices. Occasional laughter. Becca’s clock read 5:15. Two hours since the service had ended. When would the crowd leave?
“You don’t want me to go downstairs with all those people there?” Becca’s expression tightened, eyes narrowed, watching her.
Maybe Becca didn’t remember what happened at the funeral. Maybe the Valium took away the sound of her scream, that horrific cry that might still echo inside the church, but the people downstairs would remember and they would stare at her.
“Is that what you want to do?” Lena asked.
Becca leaned back against her pillows, shaking her head.
“Okay. I’ll get you something. Be back in a second.”
As Lena stood to leave, Becca said, “Mom?”
“What, honey?”
“Did you see him?”
Lena stilled. “Who?”
“Royce. In the churchyard. Before the service.”
Lena gripped the course wood of the jamb. Why would he show up at the funeral? What kind of sick gesture was that? “What . . . what did he say to you?”
Becca gathered the spread to her chest, squeezing it like a child might squeeze a doll. “Are you going to see him again?” Accusation simmered beneath her words.
Lena didn’t mean to flinch, to show any sign that Royce’s presence in their conversation had any meaning. But she felt raw, unguarded. Unprepared for what felt almost like an assault. She found the smile that had gotten her through the afternoon, a cold flash of teeth. It was all she had left. “You don’t need to worry about him.”
Becca didn’t respond, just looked at her like she could see through skin.
“Let me get you something to eat.” As Lena descended the steps to get her some food, she prayed the child would actually eat something.
CHAPTER 13
Becca awakened again to a dark room. She was still in her clothes with the funky wool blanket from her Aunt Abby bunched over her legs. Spats lay beside her, a purring black and white lump. The neon blue numbers from her iPod radio-dock told her it was three fifteen A.M. As she sat up, her head spun as if she’d just come off a roller coaster. There was also a loud grumble from her stomach. When was the last time she had something to eat?
Her mom had brought her cheese and crackers, but she hadn’t liked the cheese and had needed something to drink. She had thought about going downstairs, but heard all the people and opted to stay in her room.
The service itself was a blur. So many people, the church suffocatingly hot, the organ coughing like it had TB or something. Reverend Bill preaching about her dad, and everybody looking at her, and Becca watching her mother, until she got out of focus, like her skin had blended into the air, and then they carried Dad away and . . . oh no. Had she screamed? Or was that a dream? Please, please let it be a dream.
Her mouth was drier than sand. At least the house had grown quiet. She could sneak down the stairs and get a glass of water, maybe even a little food.
She untangled herself from the sheets to stand on wobbly legs. The room tilted like it had that time she and Kayla snuck beer from Kayla’s house, but it righted itself when she sucked in a few deep breaths. She tiptoed down the steps to the kitchen, careful to skip the creaky fourth step. There should be juice in the refrigerator, but she couldn’t find it buried behind all the food people had brought. Her stomach roared again, loud as a grizzly, so she removed trays of deli meats, cheese, fruit, and pastries.
All that food. The swirl of colors—pink ham, purple grapes, pale yellow cheese. She could have a snack. She was entitled, since she’d missed two meals. She started with the ham slices, downing two before moving on to the turkey. Chunks of dotted pepper jack cheese came next. She caught the cinnamony smell of sweet rolls, helping herself to one, then two.
She should stop. She should, but she was still hungry. She found macaroni still cold from the fridge but didn’t care. The cake on the table—white frosting topped with chocolate curls—like the one Mom had ordered for Dad’s birthday. Mom had joked that all the candles might trigger a fire alarm and Dad had blown out all but one, so Becca helped. She shoved the memory in a closet as she cut herself a wedge of cake, which she inhaled in a few bites. Oatmeal cookies made the next course. Three went down before she even poured the glass of milk.
She took a long swallow and thudded the glass on the table.
Oh God. What had she done? She’d eaten so much. She hadn’t meant to, but the food was there and she couldn’t stop herself and now—all the calories. In a few stupid minutes, she must have eaten two thousand calories.
A pocket of gas welled inside and a disgusting belch bellowed from her, loud enough to be heard across town.
“Who’s there?”
Becca panicked at the sound of Elliot’s voice. She rushed to shove the trays back in the fridge, but she dropped the plastic cheese platter with an echoing clunk. Yellow cubes bobbed and danced across the floor.
“Becca? What’s up?” He looked sleep tousled, hair standing on ends, one leg of his sweat pants bunched up mid-thigh.
“I just woke up.” She dropped to her knees, scooping up cheese and grapes and piling them back on the plate.
Elliot slid the trash can to her. “Mom’ll kill you if you put them back in the fridge. She never was one for the five-second rule.”
“What?”
“The five-second rule. Sims used to claim that any food that hits the floor can be eaten if you do it within five seconds. But that doesn’t work for entire cheese trays.”
After taking the plastic plate from her and dumping it in the trash, he moved to the counter. He flicked the foil that had covered the beef and turkey, studying it as if it was a troubling crossword puzzle. Could he tell how much she’d scarfed down?
“You want me to make you a sandwich?” he asked.
“No.” She snatched up the meat tray which was now offensive to her and shoved it in the refrigerator.
He moved over to the desserts. Becca hid the Danishes behind a large flower arrangement but noticed Elliot scrutinizing the cookie plate. “I see you’ve had dessert. Maybe you should eat something healthier?”
“I had a few pieces of cheese.” Another huff of gas erupted. She covered her mouth.
“I’m glad that you’re eating something.” He came closer, meeting her eyes with a look of concerned bewilderment.
“Why is everybody so obsessed with what I eat? Jesus. I wish people would mind their own business.” She forced a knife-edge into her voice, but Elliott kept staring.
“Sorry. We’re just concerned.” He backed up, glancing down at her body. “You’re a beautiful girl, Becca. But you’re getting too skinny.”
Why was he lying to her? She was not thin. Not thin, no matter how hard she tried. Not thin, and she just ate a gazillion calories and would have to run a marathon or six to burn them off.
Elliott pulled out a stool and sat, as though he intended to continue this little chat.
“I want to talk to you about
the funeral.”
“What’s there to talk about?” She eyed the door.
“It’s just that, well, you got so upset. Do you remember what happened?”
Damn. It hadn’t been a dream. She had shrieked like a rabid coyote in front of all those people. She felt heat rising, a flame slithering up her stomach to her throat.
“I want to make sure you’re okay, Li’l Sis. That’s all.” He hadn’t called her “Li’l Sis” in years. The fire flushed her skin.
“Why is that your business, anyway?” she answered. “You’re about to leave town. Why stick your nose in my life when you’re gonna forget all about me when you go back to New York?” Her voice quavered, a sign of weakness. She was furious and felt naked and wanted to flee up the stairs.
“What?” He blinked like she’d hit him. “I don’t—just because I’m not here doesn’t mean—”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t care? You’re a visitor to this family, Elliott. You come for a few days once a year then vanish. So you don’t get to interfere in my life.” She spun around and stomped off, determined that he wouldn’t see her fall apart.
“Becca—”
She ignored him, taking the stairs two at a time and shutting herself off in her bedroom.
She clutched at her swollen stomach. She’d eaten so fast she hadn’t tasted anything. It was revolting. She was revolting. And all that food would turn into lumpy, lardy fat. Tears filled her eyes and tracked down her face. This was the worst part. There was so much to hate when she looked inside.
She cracked open the door and listened. She could hear Elliott puttering around downstairs, putting food away. She inched into the bathroom across the hall and closed and locked the door. Approached the toilet. Just this once. One more time and that was it, she was done with this revolting ritual.
She pulled her hair back and tucked it under her sweater, slipped her sleeves up, and bent over the commode.
Once she had released the food—all of it, and there had been so much—she fell back, sliding down the wall. This was the last time. She’d emptied herself; the calories were erased. She was back in control.
She jumped at the knock on the door.
“Becca? You okay?” Elliott asked.
She pushed the toilet paper against her eyes.
“You’re not getting sick, are you?”
“Just a little upset stomach.” The lie came easy. It always did.
“Becca—”
“I’m fine. Go on to bed.”
LENA SQUIRTED FANTASTIC on the granite counter and wiped it with a sponge, erasing the red stripe left by the cherry crumble brought by a neighbor. She’d swept up cookie crumbs and bits of cheese, emptied an overflowing trash bin, and tossed a table cloth into the wash. The tile floor could use a good mopping, too, but that could wait till tonight, after Elliott and Becca went to bed. She had hours to fill once they were asleep.
She’d seen neither child since lunch, a quiet, tense meal after Elliott asked Becca how she was feeling and received a curt “fine” in response. No matter. She was relieved to have the house to herself for the afternoon. If one more person asked, “How are you doing?” she was sure she would scream.
She opened the fridge. Trays of food bulged out, much of which needed to be thrown away. She hoped all the names had been recorded on the notebook she’d left by the wine chiller. When should she write thank you notes? Not today, but soon, so she wouldn’t forget anyone. Muted piano strains came from her purse hanging on its hook. Her phone. She slid it from its pocket and, when she read the number, nearly dropped the phone.
Royce. How odd to see those numbers she knew so well they might have been tattooed on her heart. Eighteen months ago, this call would have made her smile inside and out. She pressed “Ignore.” Her hand quaked as she set down the phone.
What did he want? Now that Mitch was . . . dead, the word still felt foreign in her world . . . Royce thought he should get in touch? Should insert himself back in her life? There was no room for him nor would there ever be. If only she knew how to block his number.
The squeal of the front door opening made her jerk. Voices and thuds followed. “Le-Le? Are you home?”
The voice of her sister, Abigail, bellowed from the living room. Nobody had told her when she would arrive. Lena smoothed the front of her sweater, tucked hair behind her ears, and rushed to meet her. There Abby stood, wearing a nubby fleece jacket, her hair—silver hair now—in a tattered rope of braid. She hurled aside a battered knapsack and reached out her arms.
Lena froze. How long had it been? Three years? Abby looked so different and yet the same. Tall as a tree but fluffier. No makeup. Dressed like she lived in 1975. Abby didn’t wait for Lena to budge but came to her, wrapping her arms around her like a warm wooly bear, and Lena fought to catch her breath in the stifling embrace. Abby let go and, holding her at arm’s length, said, “Damn you. Still so beautiful.”
Elliott laughed behind her. Next came footsteps on the stairs and Becca’s voice yelling, “Aunt Abby! You’re here!” with more enthusiasm than Lena had heard from her in weeks.
Abby grabbed Lena’s youngest and lifted her off her feet. “Becca Bec, you’ve gone and grown up on me.”
“We need to get the guest bed ready for you,” Lena said. “I wasn’t sure when you’d get here.”
“That’s my fault. Ell said he’d fetch me. I didn’t want you worrying over late flights. I’ve been in four airports since yesterday. I may smell like it, too.”
“I already changed the linens,” Becca said.
“Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?”
Becca grabbed Abby’s knapsack, hefting it over her bony shoulder. Elliott snagged the the Pullman suitcase. “We’ll take these on up.”
“Make sure there are towels—” Lena called out as they climbed the stairs.
“Done!” Becca replied.
When they were left alone Abby said, “I’d kill for a glass of wine.”
“You must be hungry, too. Go have a seat.”
Lena was glad for something to do. She went to the kitchen and loaded a tray with fruit, cheese, and crackers, adding some of Ms. Florence’s cheesecake bites for dessert. She opted for the crystal wine glasses, the ones she’d inherited from their grandmother, and found an opened bottle of chardonnay in the fridge. She considered the irony that Abby was here to help her, yet in less than five minutes, she was waiting on her sister. Though to be fair, Abby looked exhausted. Why had she come? She hadn’t come when either parent died or when Lena had cancer. Why now?
Abby sat in the leather La-Z-Boy—Mitch’s chair—her legs stretched out, heavy clogs teetering from her feet. Someone had lit the wood piled in the fireplace.
“Damn jet lag has me wacky,” Abby said. “But it’s nice to speak in English again.”
Lena placed the tray on the table and handed her a glass. Abby’s voice had changed; her Ls more pronounced, her words slightly more musical. “How long can you stay?” Lena asked.
“As long as you can put up with me. I have an open ticket. And God knows, I have the vacation time.” Abby grabbed a cracker and cut off a fat slice of cheese.
Lena hid her apprehension. What did “open ticket” mean? Weeks? Months?
“Okay, Le-Le. Tell me how you’re doing.”
“I’m managing.”
“Of course you’re managing. Nothing on earth you can’t ‘manage.’ But Christ, what a blow. You and Mitch—y’all were peanut butter and jelly. I can’t even think what this is doing to you.” She ate the cheese and cracker in one bite, then finished two more crackers. Crumbs dotted the front of her jacket.
Lena took a sip of wine, her first since this hell began, but she needed fortification for this conversation.
“How was the service?” Abby asked.
“Lovely.” Lena sipped again. She thought about the flowers, the wheezing from the organ, the blur of faces. The haunting scream from her youngest.
“Lots o
f people, I’m sure. Everybody loved Mitch.” Abby set her wine on the table and sliced off more cheese. Dancing yellow flames glimmered off the glass.
Becca and Elliott hurried down the stairs. Elliott sat by Lena on the sofa and poured himself a glass of wine. Becca plopped down on the floor beside Abby and leaned back against Abby’s knees.
“How’s my Becca-Bec?” Abby stroked Becca’s hair.
Becca shrugged. “Okay.”
“You’ve grown into such a beauty. Bet you’re fighting off the boys every day.”
“Ha,” Becca said, rolling her eyes. It was such a normal Becca gesture but Lena hadn’t seen it in days and it gave her hope.
“Tell us what you’re doing now, Aunt Abby.” Elliott reached for a cheesecake bite. “You were off in the jungle somewhere when we called.”
“Not a jungle, but pretty far out there. Go to the end of the earth and hang a right—that’s where I’ve been working. It’s a small farming community so damn poor and isolated that it’s like stepping back in time. But I loved the people there. Well, most of them, anyway.” She smiled, but the corners of her mouth faltered.
“What kind of work?” Lena asked. While Abby had worked for the US Agency for International Development since college, Lena had never understood what the job actually was.
“Teaching them about crop rotation. Trying to get a school set up. Trying to keep—” she hesitated, spinning the wine glass by its stem. “It’s complicated and I’m too travel-drunk to describe it. Maybe another day.”
They all settled back and looked into the fire. Abby’s fingers wove through Becca’s hair, and Becca didn’t pull away. In fact, she scuttled closer to her aunt.
“I still have those dolls you sent me,” Becca said. “My favorite is the one from Nicaragua. I named her Soledad.”
“Does that mean sunshine?” Elliott asked.
Abby shook her head. “It means solitude.”
Amen, Lena thought.
“I love the wooden flute you sent last Christmas,” Elliott said. “I’ve even used it some in gigs. It’s got great tone.”
“I’m glad. I got it at a local market, but it took a friend with a lot more musical talent than I to pick it out.”
